He woke at six and lay still for a few minutes, tracking what he knew.The ceiling was grey in the early light—not the grey of the marble in the entryway, but the soft grey of a room that hadn't yet decided what kind of day it was going to have. He'd learned to read the weather by the quality of light in this room, by the way the city's ambient glow filtered through the curtains that Alexander had chosen and that Elijah had, without discussion, stopped closing all the way. He liked the light in the morning. He liked waking up to the evidence that the world was still there, still turning, still full of possibilities he hadn't yet imagined.The interview was agreed. Claire Marsh, Tuesday, two hours, the penthouse. The terms were in writing—Priya had circulated the draft at eleven the previous night, and he'd read it in bed with the specific attention of someone checking a document he intended to be held to. He'd read it twice, then a third time, looking for loopholes, for ambiguities, f
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